


taking flight

by vityenka



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Gen, IM SO EXCITED YALL, Ice Adolescence (Yuri!!! on Ice), POV Victor Nikiforov, Victor Nikiforov-centric, Young Victor Nikiforov, a response to the ice ado teaser, i really don't know what to tag this as i'm just so happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vityenka/pseuds/vityenka
Summary: Viktor dances. It’s Olympic season, and he wants gold between his teeth. There are eons stretching out before him, gold upon gold, legends and history to write. He writes it now, into the hard surface below him, of the air making way for him.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 20





	taking flight

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO YOI STANS IT'S ICE ADO TIME. i'm so fucking excited over the trailer, and i wrote this in literally ten minutes oh my GODDDDD. i'm so happy, and i hope you like this. i went a more poetic route. feel free to scream about ice ado in the comments. i'm made of serotonin right now. depression who? 2020 being the worst year who?

“Vitya,” Yakov’s voice cuts through the roar. France glitters outside the double doors into the arena and Viktor’s breath comes in quick, fast waves. It’s almost his turn. Olympic season is upon them the way Viktor’s senior debut is, and the ice is ready for him. His green costume fits like a glove, perfect in every way, and the silver of his skates glints with the arena lights. 

It’s almost time. The music is being queued up, there are words in every language being passed around between friends and family and fans, and Viktor can feel it in his blood the way he is made for this. He is made of ice and echoes, the careful way he rolls over in the mornings so as not to squish Makkachin. He is made of the way she rolls over without any care of squishing him. 

“Vitya,” Yakov calls again. He is unusually soft, dark eyes and square jaw set in determination. “You’re up.” 

Viktor takes a breath, another. He flexes his fingers and stretches up towards the great ceiling, hands Yakov his guards. 

“Now representing Russia, Viktor Nikiforov!” 

The ice cuts beautifully for him, carves every stroke of his body into permanent fixtures of history. A pigeon passes by, its wings beating a symphony of living inside the bones of this place, inside the bones of figure skating. 

Viktor circles the arena, shakes his shoulders out, stretches his arms in nervous, youthful greeting. Yakov nods at him and he takes his place at the center of the crowd, of the world. 

There is nothing more similar to flight than figure skating. Viktor has been on planes, across the world and he knows the way his body tenses perfectly, makes itself vulnerable to the strength of a jump, that this is flight. The roar of the crowd, the waving of Russian flags and banners with his name in Cyrillic, in English, some with a K and others with a C. He closes his eyes, ponytail whipping through the air, a silver smoke signal. 

Viktor dances. It’s Olympic season, and he wants gold between his teeth. There are eons stretching out before him, gold upon gold, legends and history to write. He writes it now, into the hard surface below him, of the air making way for him. 

The symphony rises before him, mountains and forever, the beat of a pigeon’s wings. He lands, perfect and still, and everything erupts back into reality. Viktor blinks back tears, fails, and they roll down his cheeks, silent and glittering. 

Viktor bows—north, south, east, west. There are poodles and roses raining down, promises of forever from the people who know him the best, or at least he thinks they do. A congratulations, a _we’ll love you forever._ A promise kept, an answering to his call. Viktor takes a lap, scoops up as much as he can, holding bundles of brown fluff and blue bouquets. A young boy throws him a stuffed Makkachin, dressed in a matching green outfit with white ruffles, and Viktor thanks him with a watery smile.

“Very good,” Yakov greets, voice warm. Viktor feels full, spilling over with every clap and cry and welcoming him home. 

The bench at the Kiss and Cry is plush, and Viktor slips himself back into his Team Russia jacket, blue and white and red decorating his arms. It says his name on the back, Nikiforov, creator of universes and stories told through music and dance and ice. 

The scores are beautiful, golden and record-breaking. Yakov lifts him into the air, which feels like flying, and he cries and cries until his cheeks hurt from smiling. 

Yakov leads him outside, hand resting on his shoulder, into the glittering Parisian night.

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi hi! i hope you enjoyed. i love this show. i love this movie already. i love viktor so much. i'll get back to viktuuri stuff probably once the semester ends. once again, feel free to scream with me in the comments. also, who else thinks viktor gets his golden skates in response to winning at the olympics? see you in ice ado or next fic <33333


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